Ãcariya Mun related the story of a dhutanga monk
who inadvertently went to stay in a forest located
next to a charnel ground. He arrived on foot at a
certain village late one afternoon and, being
unfamiliar with the area, asked the villagers where
he could find a wooded area suitable for meditation.
They pointed to a tract of forest, claiming it was
suitable, but neglected to tell him that it was
situated right on the edge of a charnel ground. They
then guided him to the forest, where he passed the
first night peacefully. On the following day he saw
the villagers pass by carrying a corpse, which they
soon cremated only a short distance from where he
was staying. As he looked on, he could clearly see
the burning corpse. He started to grow apprehensive
the moment he saw the coffin being carried past, but
he assumed that they were on their way to cremate
the body somewhere else. Still, the mere sight of
the coffin caused him considerable consternation, as
he thought ahead to the coming night. He was worried
that the image of the coffin would haunt him after
dark, making it impossible for him to sleep. As it
turned out he had camped on the edge of a charnel
ground, so he was obliged to watch as the corpse was
burned right in front of him. This sight upset him
even more, causing him severe discomfort as he
contemplated the prospect of having to spend the
night there. Feeling very uneasy from the first
sight of the corpse passing by, the feeling
gradually intensified until he was so terrified
that, by nightfall, he could hardly breathe.

It’s pitiful to think that a monk can
be so terrified of ghosts. I am recording this
incident here so that those of my readers having a
similar fear of ghosts may reflect on the tenacity
with which this monk strove to confront his fear
head on, and so take a valuable lesson from the
past.

Once all the villagers had gone home,
leaving him alone, his torment began in earnest. He
could not keep his mind focused on meditation
because whenever he closed his eyes to meditate, he
saw a long line of ghosts moving toward him. Before
long ghosts hovered around him in groups, an image
which frightened him so much that all presence of
mind deserted him, throwing him into a panic. His
fear began in mid-afternoon, at the first sight of
the corpse. By the time darkness fell all around,
his fear had become so intense he was just barely
able to cope.

Since ordaining as a monk, he had
never experienced anything like this long struggle
with visions of ghosts. At least he was mindful
enough to begin reflecting: The fear, the
ghosts – all of it may simply be a delusion. It is
more likely that these haunting images of ghosts are
creations of my own mind. sadhutanga monk he was
expected to be steadfast and fearless when facing
death, ghosts, or any other danger.

So he reminded himself: People
everywhere praise the fearless courage of dhutanga
monks, yet here I am shamelessly afraid of ghosts.
I’m acting like a total failure, as though
I’ve ordained just to live in fear of ghosts and
goblins without any rhyme or reason. I’m a disgrace
to my fellow monks in the dhutanga tradition. I am
unworthy of the admiration of people who believe we
are noble warriors fearing nothing. How could I let
this happen?

Having reminded himself of the noble
virtues expected of a dhutanga monk, and roundly
criticizing himself for failing to live up to
these high standards, he resolved that he would
force himself to face the fear directly from then
on. The corpse that smoldered before him on
the funeral pyre being the cause of his fear, he
decided to go there immediately. Putting on his
robe, he started walking straight for the
funeral pyre, which he saw clearly glowing in the
darkness. But after a few steps his legs tensed up,
and he could hardly move. His heart pounded and his
body began to perspire profusely, as though exposed
to the midday sun. Seeing that this was not going to
work, he quickly adjusted his tack. Starting with
small, deliberate steps, he placed one foot just in
front of the other, not allowing his forward motion
to stop. By that time, he was relying on sheer
strength of will to push his body forward.
Frightened to death and shaking uncontrollably, he
nevertheless kept his resolve to walk on – as though
his life depended on it.

Struggling the entire way, he
eventually reached the burning corpse. But instead
of feeling relieved that he had achieved his
objective, he felt so faint he could barely stand.
About to go crazy with fear, he forced himself to
look at the partially burned corpse. Then, seeing
the skull burned white from long exposure to the
fire, he got such a fright that he nearly fainted
straightaway. Bravely suppressing his fear, he sat
down to meditate just a short distance from the
burning pyre. He focused on the corpse, using it as
the object of his meditation, while forcing his
terrified heart to mentally recite continuously: I’m
going to die– just like this corpse, there’s no need
to be afraid. I’m going to die someday
too– there’s no point in being afraid.

Sitting there grappling with his fear
of ghosts and forcing his heart to repeat this
meditation on death, he heard a strange sound just
behind him – the sound of approaching footsteps! The
footsteps stopped, then started again, slow and
cautious as if someone were sneaking up to pounce on
him from behind – or so he imagined at the time. His
fear now reaching its peak, he was poised to jump up
and run away, crying “Ghosts! Help!” But he managed
to control this impulse and waited, listening
nervously as the footsteps slowly drew nearer then
stopped a few yards away. Poised to run, he heard a
strange sound – like someone chewing, loud and
crunchy. This sent his imagination racing: What’s it
chewing on around here? Next, it’ll be chewing on my
head! This cruel, heartless ghost is sure to mean
the end of me.

Unable to stand the suspense any
longer, he decided to open his eyes. Should the
situation look drastic, he was prepared to run for
his life – a far better option than just letting
some terrible ghost devour him. Escaping death now,
he reasoned, will give me the chance to resume
my practice later with renewed diligence, whereas I
gain nothing by sacrificing my life to this
ghost. With that he opened his eyes and turned to
look in the direction of the chewing, crunching
sounds, all set to make a dash for his life. Peering
through the darkness to catch a glimpse of the
terrible ghost he had imagined, he saw instead a
village dog, casually eating the scraps of food left
by the villagers as offerings to the spirits as part
of the local custom. It had come scrounging for
something to fill its stomach, as hungry animals are
wont to do; and it wasn’t the least bit interested
in him sitting there

Suddenly realizing that it was only a
dog, the monk laughed at his own folly. Turning his
attention to the dog, which showed no interest in
him whatsoever, he thought: So! You’re the almighty
specter that nearly drove me crazy. You’ve taught me
the lesson of my life! At the same time, he was
deeply dismayed by his own cowardice: “Despite my
determination to confront my fears like a warrior, I
was thrown into a panic as soon as I heard the sound
of this dog scrounging for food – a mad dhutanga monk
fleeing frantically for his life! It’s a good thing
I had enough mindfulness to wait that fraction of a
second longer to discover the real cause of my fear.
Otherwise, it would probably have driven me mad.
Gosh! Am I really so grossly stupid as that? If so,
do I deserve to continue wearing the yellow robes,
the emblem of courage; for it denotes a disciple of
the Lord Buddha, whose superior courage transcends
all comparison? Being this useless, should I still
walk for alms, and thus desecrate the food that the
faithful offer with such respect? What can I do now
to redeem myself after such a despicable display of
cowardice? Surely no other disciple of the Buddha is
as pathetic as I am. Just one inept disciple like
myself is enough to weigh heavily on the sãsana –should
there be any more, the burden would be enormous. How
am I going to tackle this fear of ghosts that’s just
made me look so foolish? Hurry up! Take a stand,
right this minute! It is better to die now than to
postpone this decision any longer. Never again can I
allow this fear of ghosts to trample on my heart.
This world has no place for a monk who disgraces
himself and the religion he represents.”

With this self-admonition fresh in
his mind, the monk made a solemn vow:“I will not
leave this place until I’ve overcome my fear of
ghosts. If I have to die trying, then so be it! If I
can’t defeat this fear, then I don’t deserve to
continue living in such disgrace. Others might
follow my bad example, becoming useless people
themselves, thus further increasing the burden on
the sãsana.”

So he vowed to himself that, from
that moment on, he would remain in that cemetery day
and night as a way of dealing sternly with his fear.
He focused on the corpse before him, comparing it
with his own body, seeing that they were both
composed of the same basic elements. As long as
consciousness is there in the heart to hold
everything together, then that person, or that
animal, continues to live. But as soon as
consciousness departs, the whole combination of
elements begins to disintegrate, and is then
referred to as a corpse.

It was clear that his notion about
the dog being a ghost was shamefully absurd; so he
resolved that he would never again lend any credence
to thoughts of being haunted by ghosts. As this
incident clearly showed, his mind simply haunted
itself with ghostly apparitions, and his fear was
the outcome of this self-deception. The misery he
suffered arose from such faith in this delusion that
a mere dog, harmlessly scrounging for food, almost
became a matter of life and death.

Recalling how deluded he had been for
so long, trusting the selfdeceptions that his mind
constantly churned out, he thought: “Although
they’ve always been at work, this is the first time
they have brought me so close to catastrophe. Dhamma
teaches us that saññã is the master of deception,
but until now I’ve never clearly understood what
that means. Only now, inhaling the stench of my own
living death, do I understand its significance: My
fear of ghosts is nothing more thansaññã’s deceptive
trickery. From now on, saññã will never again trick
me as it has in the past. I must stay put here in
this cemetery until the ‘master of deception’ is
dead and buried, so that the specter of ghosts will
not continue to haunt me in the future. Only then
will I agree to leave here. Now it’s my turn to
torture to death this cunning, deceitful conjurer,
then cremate its stinking corpse like that fleshly
corpse I’ve just seen cremated here. Dealing a
decisive blow tosaññã’s insidious trickery – this is
the only pressing matter in my life right now.”

The monk took up this challenge with
such earnest resolve that whenever saññã caused him
to suspect a ghost was lurking somewhere around him,
he immediately went to that spot, exposing the
deception. Forgoing sleep, he kept up this vigil
throughout the night, until finally saññã no longer
had the strength to assert its assumptions. In the
early hours of the evening, he had been engaged in a
struggle with external ghosts, in the guise of the
village dog which had nearly been his undoing.
Later, when he understood the situation and became
conscious of his error, he turned his attention
inward, battling his inner ghosts into submission.
Beginning the moment he became aware of his folly,
his fear of ghosts subsided and ceased to trouble
him for the rest of the night. On subsequent nights,
he remained alert, ready to confront any hint of
fear using the same uncompromising stance.
Eventually he transformed himself into a monk of
incredible courage – in all circumstances. This
whole experience had a profound and lasting impact
on his spiritual development. His fear of ghosts
gave rise to an outstanding lesson in Dhamma, thus
converting him into a truly authentic monk.

I include this story in the biography
of Ãcariya Mun in the hope that the reader will gain
some valuable insights from it, just as I trust the
story of Ãcariya Mun’s life will prove to be of
great benefit to people everywhere. As can be seen
from the above story, visiting cemeteries has always
been an essential dhutangapractice.

WEARING ONLY THE THREE PRINCIPAL
ROBES is another dhutangaobservance that Ãcariya Mun
followed religiously from the day he first ordained
until old age and declining health eventually forced
him to relax his strict adherence somewhat. In those
days, dhutanga monks rarely settled in one location
for very long, except during the three months of the
rainy season retreat. They wandered through forests
and mountains, traveling by foot the whole way since
there were no automobiles back then. Each monk had
to carry his own belongings – he could expect no
help from others. For this reason, each monk took
with him only as much as he could conveniently
manage. Since it was awkward to be loaded down with
too many things, only absolute essentials were
taken. As time went on, this frugal attitude became
an integral part of a monk’s character. Should
someone give him something extra, he would simply
give it away to another monk to avoid accumulating
unnecessary possessions.

The true beauty of a dhutanga monk
lies with the quality of his practice and the
simplicity of his life. When he dies, he leaves
behind only his eight basic requisites – the only
true necessities of his magnificent way of life.
While he’s alive, he lives majestically in
poverty – the poverty of a monk. Upon death, he is
well-gone with no attachments whatsoever. Human
beings and devas alike sing praises to the monk who
dies in honorable poverty, free of all worldly
attachments. So the ascetic practice of wearing only
the three principal robes will always be a badge of
honor complementing dhutanga monks. Ãcariya Mun was
conscientious in the way he practiced all the dhutanga observances
mentioned above. He became so skillful and
proficient with them that it would be hard to find
anyone of his equal today. He also made a point of
teaching the monks under his tutelage to train
themselves using these same ascetic methods. He
directed them to live in remote wilderness areas,
places that were lonely and frightening: for
example, at the foot of a tree, high in the
mountains, in caves, under overhanging rocks, and in
cemeteries. He took the lead in teaching them to
consider their daily almsround a solemn duty,
advising them to eschew food offered later. Once lay
devotees in the village became familiar with his
strict observance of this practice, they would put
all their food offerings into the monks’ bowls,
making it unnecessary to offer additional food at
the monastery. He advised his disciples to eat all
food mixed together in their bowls, and to avoid
eating from other containers. And he showed them the
way by eating only one meal each day until the very
last day of his life.

WANDERING BY STAGES across the
Northeast, Ãcariya Mun gradually attracted
increasing numbers of disciples at every new
location along the way. When he stopped to settle in
one place for some time, scores of monks gravitated
to that area to live with him. Having set up a
temporary monastic community in the forest, sixty to
seventy monks would gather there, while many more
stayed close by in the surrounding area. Ãcariya Mun
always tried to keep his disciples spread apart,
living in separate locations that were not too close
to one another, yet close enough to his residence so
that they could easily seek his advice when they
encountered problems in their meditation. This
arrangement was convenient for all, for when too
many monks are living in close proximity, it can
become a hindrance to meditation.

On the uposatha observance days, when
the Pãåimokkha was recited, dhutangamonks came from
various locations in his vicinity to assemble at his
residence. After the recitation of the Pãåimokkha, Ãcariya
Mun addressed the whole assembly with a discourse on
Dhamma, and then answered the monks’ questions, one
by one, until their doubts cleared up and everyone
was satisfied. Each monk then returned to his own
separate location, buoyed by the exposition of
Dhamma he had just heard, and resumed his meditation
practice with renewed enthusiasm.

Although he sometimes had large
groups of monks staying to train with him, he found
them easy to supervise because they were all
prepared to put what he taught into practice for
their own spiritual benefit. Monastic life under his
tutelage was so orderly and quiet that the monastery
often appeared deserted. Excepting mealtimes and
times when the monks assembled for meetings, a
visitor coming at any other hour wouldn’t have seen
the monks. The place would have looked deserted with
each monk having slipped into the dense forest to
diligently pursue walking or sitting meditation in
his own secluded spot, day and night.

Ãcariya Mun often assembled the monks
in the evenings at about dusk to give a discourse on
Dhamma. As the monks sat together quietly
listening, Ãcariya Mun’s voice was the only sound
they heard. The rhythm of his voice articulating the
essence of Dhamma was at once lyrical and
captivating. Carried along by the flow of his
teaching, his audience completely forgot themselves,
their weariness, and the time that passed.
Listening, they were aware only of the flow of
Dhamma having an impact on their hearts, creating
such a pleasant feeling that they could never get
enough of it. Each of these meetings lasted many
hours.

Within the circle of dhutanga monks,
listening to a Dhamma discourse in this way is
considered another form of meditation practice. Dhutanga monks
have an especially high regard for their teacher and
his verbal instructions. He constantly guides and
admonishes them to such good effect that they tend
to view his teachings as the lifeblood of their
meditation practice. Showing the utmost respect and
affection for their teacher, they are even willing
to sacrifice their lives for him. The Venerable
Ananda is an excellent case in point: He had such
unwavering affection for the Buddha that he was
willing to sacrifice his life by throwing himself
into the path of the wild, charging elephant that
Devadatta had let loose in an attempt to kill the
Buddha.

In Ãcariya Mun’s case, dhutanga monks
listened to his instructions with great reverence,
enthusiastically taking them to heart. This was
especially evident when he advised one of his monks
to go live in a certain cave in order to give his
practice new impetus. Monks, singled out in this
manner, never objected, but faithfully followed his
recommendations with genuine conviction, refusing to
allow fear or concern for their safety to become an
issue. Instead they were pleased, feeling that their
practice was bound to be strengthened by living in
the locations he recommended. This in turn infused
them with determination to strive relentlessly both
day and night. They were convinced that, if Ãcariya
Mun suggested a certain location to them, then their
efforts there were sure to be rewarded with good
results – as though they had received an assurance
of success from him in advance. This could be
likened to the assurance that the Lord Buddha gave
to the Venerable Ananda, just prior to his Parinibbãna,
when he told him that in three months time his heart
would be free from all kilesas. He was predicting
that the Venerable Ananda was certain to attain
enlightenment, becoming an Arahant on the opening
day of the First Sangha Council. It’s obvious that
devout obedience to the teacher is vitally
important. It engenders an unwavering interest in
practice, guards against carelessness and apathy,
and so helps to anchor the basic principles of
Dhamma in the disciple’s heart. It facilitates the
establishment of a common understanding between
teacher and disciple so that instructions need not
be repeated over and over until it becomes annoying
and tiresome for both parties.

ÃCARIYA MUN’S SECOND TRIP to the
Northeast was a cause for much interest and
excitement among monks and lay supporters throughout
the region. During that period, he traveled
extensively teaching in almost all the northeastern
provinces. He passed initially through Nakhon
Ratchasima; then through Si Saket, Ubon Ratchathani,
Nakhon Phanom, Sakon Nakhon, Udon Thani, Nong Khai,
Loei, Loei, and Phetchabun, and occasionally crossed
the Mekong River into Laos to visit Vientiane and
Tha Khek. He crisscrossed these areas many times in
those days, but he preferred to remain longer in
provinces that were mountainous and thickly forested
because they were especially suitable for
meditation. For instance, south and southwest of the
town of Sakon Nakhon there were many forest-covered
mountain ranges where he spent the rains retreat
near the village of Phon Sawang in the district of
Sawang Dan Din. The mountainous terrain in this area
is so conducive to the ascetic way of life that it
is still frequented by dhutanga monks today.

Monks wandering in such areas during
the dry season usually slept out in the forest on
small bamboo platforms. They were made by splitting
sections of bamboo lengthwise, spreading them out
flat, then securing them to a bamboo frame with
legs, making a raised sleeping surface of about six
feet long, three or four feet wide, and about one
and a half feet above the ground. One platform was
constructed for each monk and was spaced as far
apart from another as the living area of the forest
would allow. A large tract of forest allowed spacing
of at least 120 feet with the thick foliage in
between each platform acting as a natural screen. If
the area was relatively small, or a large group of
monks lived together in an area, then the spacing
might be reduced to 90 feet intervals, though the
minimum distance was usually 120 feet. The fewer the
number of monks living in a particular area, the
farther apart they were individually – being close
enough to one another only to hear the distant sound
of a cough or a sneeze. Local villagers helped each
monk to clear a walking meditation track
approximately 60 feet in length, which was located
beside his sleeping platform. These tracks were used
day and night for practicing meditation in a walking
mode.

When monks fearful of ghost or tigers
came to train under Ãcariya Mun, he usually made
them stay alone, far from the rest of the monks– a
severe training method designed to draw attention to
the fear so that the monk could learn to come to
grips with it. He was required to remain there until
he became accustomed to the wilderness environment,
and inured to the tigers and ghosts that his mind
conjured up to deceive him. The expectation was
that, in the end, he would achieve the same good
results as others who had trained themselves in this
way. Then he wouldn’t have to carry such a burden of
fear indefinitely. Ãcariya Mun believed this method
accomplished better results than simply leaving a
monk to his own devices, and to the very real
prospect that he might never find the courage to
face his fears.

Upon arriving in a new location, a dhutanga monk
had to first sleep on the ground, collecting various
kinds of leaves, or in some places straw, to make a
crude mattress. Ãcariya Mun said that the months of
December and January were especially difficult due
to the prevailing seasonal weather patterns, as the
approaching cold weather met and mixed with the
outgoing rainy weather. When it did rain during the
winter months, a monk inevitably got drenched.
Sometimes it rained continuously all night, and the
umbrella-tent he used as shelter was no match for
the driving rain and high winds. Still, he had no
choice but to sit shivering under this makeshift
shelter, enduring the dank cold and unable to move
for it was impossible to see in the dark. A downpour
during the daylight hours was not quite so bad. A
monk still got wet, but at least he could see his
surroundings and search for things in the forest to
help shelter him from the elements without feeling
totally blind. Essential items like his outer robe
and his matches had to be kept in his alms bowl with
the lid tightly secured. Folding his upper robe in
half, he draped it around himself to keep out the
cold and damp. The cloth mosquito net that hung from
the suspended umbrella down to the ground formed a
tent-like shelter that was indispensable for
blocking out the windswept rain. Otherwise,
everything got soaked and he had to endure the
discomfort of having no dry robe to wear in the
morning for almsround.

The months of February, March, and
April saw the weather change again, as it began to
heat up. Normally dhutanga monks then moved up into
the mountains, seeking out caves or overhanging
cliffs to shelter them from the sun and the rain.
Had they gone to these mountainous locations in
December and January, the ground would still have
been saturated from the rainy season, exposing them
to the risk of malarial infection. Malarial fever
was never easy to cure. Many months could pass
before the symptoms finally went away. It could
easily develop into a chronic condition, the fever
recurring at regular intervals. This kind of chronic
malaria was locally referred to as ‘the fever the
in-laws despise’, for its victims can eat well
enough but they can’t do any work because the fever
is so debilitating. In such cases, not only the
in-laws but also everyone else became fed up. No
effective remedies for malaria existed then; so
those who caught it had to just let it run its
course. I myself quite often suffered from such
chastening fevers, and I too had let them run their
course as we had no medicines to treat malaria in
those days. Ãcariya Mun used to say that most of
the dhutangamonks he knew during that period had
been infected with malaria, including himself and
many of his disciples. Some even died of it.
Listening to those accounts, one couldn’t help
feeling a profound sympathy for him and his monks:
he nearly died before gaining the necessary
understanding to teach the way of Dhamma to his
disciples, so they too could practice following his
example.